


you came in (electric shivers through my bones)

by whatiwouldnotgive



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: APH Rare Pair Exchange, APH Secret Santa, Blow Jobs, Date gone wrong, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Hand Jobs, Holidays, M/M, Winter, because this ship needs some good smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22104793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiwouldnotgive/pseuds/whatiwouldnotgive
Summary: “You are the dumbest shit alive,” Romano said, softly.  Reaching across the table, he offered his hand out.  “Our first date was nice because it was just us doing things we like together.  And you seeing my city and seeing a new side of you.  And besides, I do have a hard time telling people my feelings, just ask Spain.  I should’ve been more open.”“Correction,” America said, taking Romano’s hand in his, “we are the dumbest shit alive.”In which, America learns romance isn't all Hollywood glitz, Romano learns to be in his feelings, pretentious New York City restaurants are mocked, and America and Romano take their time together.
Relationships: America/South Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59





	you came in (electric shivers through my bones)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShimmeringMist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShimmeringMist/gifts).



> Written for the APH Rare Pair Secret Santa for shimmeringmist (aromaticboar on tumblr)! I had so much fun writing this, and I'm excited to publish it. I really hope that it cheers you up in these trying times because, for once, I wrote a hetalia fic that does NOT have anything to do with politics.  
> Title from "Baby" by Anna of the North.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, all rights belong to respective owners.

When Romano left Rome, it was a crisp 15 degrees Celcius that was just enough for his favorite sweater but not quite cold enough to warrant a jacket. Stepping off the plane in New York though, he felt a bitter chill whip through his hair. His phone read five below freezing, and he rolled his eyes at Veneziano draping a wool jacket across his shoulders as they walked across the tarmac into the airport. 

“You did remember to bring a coat, didn’t you?” Veneziano said, hands wringing with worry, “It’s colder here than in Sicily, you know.” 

Reaching out to steady Veneziano’s hands, he said, “Of course I know that! And I did. It’s just packed. No sense in sweating half to death in the airport and carrying around the useless weight.” He didn’t mention the fact that they both had left from Rome, not Sicily, because he  _ had  _ been spending a great deal of time there, and besides, there wasn’t any correcting Veneziano. It just wasn’t to be done

After they had collected their bags and hailed a taxi to their hotel, Romano’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Veneziano, by his side, chattering amiably about how pretty New York was during Christmas and  _ Look Romano! Look at the lights! _ Glancing down, he saw the glowing  _ America  _ notification glare back at him. Something squiggled in the pit of his stomach at the sight. He opened the message and read, __  
  


_ America | 13: 46  _

_ Did you get to NY alright? _

Several dots warned him America was continuing his thoughts.

_ No problems? It was supposed to snow today. _ ’

He swallowed before replying,

_ Romano | 15:47 _

_ got here fine. should be at the hotel in about 3 hours if the traffic in your goddamn city decides to move. _

_ America | 15:47 _

_ ha ha Romano. I’ve been to Rome. I know how your people drive. _

A moment. They whizzed by a group singing outside Penn Station.

_ America | 15:49 _

_ Let me know when you get to the hotel. I can’t wait to see you. _

Another moment. One in which Romano felt heat suffuse across his face. 

_ Romano | 15:49 _

_ me too. _

He considered adding  _ I miss your smile _ but sent it before he could add and regret it. Grinning, he looked out the window, ducking his smile into his shoulder. 

This—this  _ thing  _ that had begun with America over the summer still felt so new and overwhelming. He remembered a hot August afternoon in Rome after a conference—America had looked so handsome with his shirtsleeves rolled up and lonely as he packed away his papers. It was only the two of them left and Romano, with his stomach twisting over itself, offered him dinner and wine and a stroll around the city. He still can picture the startled look in America’s eyes, and the way the evening stretched for an eternity between America’s laughter and his own biting comments. 

And now it was December. He still hadn’t told Veneziano, but it was fine. Romano was fine with keeping this to himself; if Veneziano questioned his good mood lately, he was easily distracted with a bottle of Romano’s newest wine. He picked at a loose thread in Veneziano’s coat. Outside, a few fluttering flakes began to fall like glitter in the city lights. 

After they arrived at the hotel, Romano messaged America to let him know. Veneziano let out a soft cry at the view which overlooked the park. Romano joined him, wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulders: below them were people walking to and fro with arms full of bags and boxes, families disappearing into restaurants, a distant church bell ringing amongst the lights, garlands, and menorahs glittering in the streets and storefronts. It reminded him so much of America and why America loved his city so much.

His phone buzzed:  _ Meet me in the lobby. _ He didn’t have to check who it was this time. 

“Veneziano,” Romano began, “America needs to see me. I think I’ll get dinner with him.” Grabbing his own wool coat this time, he stormed out of the room with an air of anger, hoping Veneziano would take it for genuine. “Don’t fucking wait up for me.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Romano heard Veneziano call behind him. On the elevator, he took several breaths, attempting to calm the pattering of his heart. Every coherent thought scattered from his brain when he saw America standing in the hotel lobby, bundled in his coat and a plaid scarf wound around his neck. America grinned, waving wildly at him. In his arms was—

“I got you flowers!” America said, cheerfully, holding out a ridiculous bouquet of deep red roses. 

“I can see that,” he hissed, embarrassment at the looks they were garnering taking over before he could stop himself. “ _ Why? _ ” 

America looked crestfallen, and Romano cringed.

“Well, red’s your favorite colour, and they remind me of you. Don’t you like them?” His voice, unnaturally timid, felt like a blow to Romano’s heart. 

America held them out to him; Romano took them into his own shaking hands. The eyes of curious onlookers pressed into his back, and the feeling of it churned unpleasantly in his stomach.

Swallowing, he said, “They’re beautiful. Thank you.” When that returned America’s smile, he felt relief wash over him. “Can we get out of here though?” 

America nodded, “Sure, we can drop those off in my apartment if you want. That way you don’t have to carry ‘em all night.” 

As they began the trek to America’s place, America slipped an arm around Romano’s waist, the flowers nestled in the crook of his arm were little splotches of colour against the grey sidewalk. Soft little flakes of snow caught in America’s eyelashes and stuck Romano’s bangs to his forehead. As they dodged slushy puddles, Romano was intensely glad to know that winters in cities even as grand as New York were as bothersome as everywhere else in the world. Under his breath, America hummed a little Christmas song Romano recognized but couldn’t name. 

“Which one’s that?” he asked. 

America looked down at him, “Hmm?” 

“The song, bastard. The one you’re humming.” 

“Oh,” America said, smiling (how did Romano never notice the crooked way it tilted up on one end before?), “ _ Sleigh Ride _ . It’s one of my favorite ones. I remember seeing the Andrews Sisters perform it back in 1950. That was a fun Christmas.” 

Romano didn’t remember many fond Christmases back then so close to the end of the war. He supposed it was different for America though, so far away from the aftermath. But Romano remembered a phone call they’d had a month ago, when America confessed, sleepy-eyed and hesitant, that the distance between them ached.  _ Ached _ was the word he used. It reminded Romano of Hollywood or the florid poetry of his own people. Romano sent America a little watercolour sketch he’d done of his backyard—of the olive groves and snow-capped mountains in the distance. He wanted to caption it “A piece of me for you. To close the distance.” But he’d sent it off alone, feeling foolish enough as is. Though it wasn’t anywhere as good as Veneziano’s art, he’d still received a photo of it sitting on America’s windowsill juxtaposed against the snowy landscape outside. America had written, “ _ I think our landscapes make a pretty good match don’t they? _ ” Romano didn’t stop thinking about it for days.

“Here we are,” America said, guiding him into an upscale highrise. “My apartment’s up a couple of floors.” 

America’ apartment was modern yet cosy with a clean, well-loved kitchen which opened into a spacious living room. Beside a breadbox was a tin recipe holder and a card left on the counter. In fading blue ink, America’s looping cursive read, “Banana Bread” with some batter splatters and notes commenting on the recipe card. Outside the hall closet were a pair of slippers and Converse. Big windows with white curtains let in the fading light as askew shadows along wooden floors. Knit blankets on the couch with a dozing cat curled on top, books and magazine foisted upon built-in bookshelves, photos and art dotting the walls: standing at the threshold, Romano felt a little embarrassed to be standing there in a place so full of America’s  _ America-ness _ . 

“Here,” America said, holding out a vase with water, “so they don’t get dried out.” 

“Oh, thanks.” America placed the now-full vase onto the kitchen counter. The cat, awoken from its nap, sauntered up to their ankles, tail waving through the air and eyes alert. 

“Hey, little miss,” America said. He hauled the cat up into his arms, and she instantly curled her body onto his shoulders. 

“What’s her name?” Romano asked, scritching her under her neck. Leaning into his hand, she purred her approval. 

“Gemma. That was her name when I picked her up at the shelter and didn’t have the heart to change it. I think it fits her well anyway.” America picked her up again, plunking her down into Romano’s arms. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly. Acts all tough, but deep down she’s a little baby.” 

Romano fought the urge to coo at her, instead gently bouncing her like he’d done for countless royal babies before. Like the queen she was, her eyes fell closed, settling into his arms.

“So,” America began, rubbing at a non-existent spot on the counter. 

“So?” Romano said. 

“I have a date planned tonight, for us. If you’re okay with that.” 

“Sure.” Romano was glad to let America plan these dates—he always felt more comfortable with the subtle aspects of the heart, content with shared meals or a thoughtful gift here or there rather than an elaborate back and forth—he wasn’t France, after all. But America seemed to want the wining and dining. One time they watched  _ Roman Holiday _ together, and Romano couldn’t help but notice the way America sighed at Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck’s roaming around Rome. Romano wished he could give America that. 

Pulling out his phone, America said, “Hey, before we leave—” 

Romano looked up and smiled softly as America took a photo of Gemma and him. 

America showed it to him, and Romano was surprised to see himself glowing in the sunset, tender and at ease.  _ Is this how he sees me? _ Romano wondered. Romano stroked a hand along America’s knuckles in thanks. 

They started back out into the evening, this time with their hands intertwined. America walked with a spring in his step, chattering brightly into Romano’s ear. When they reached their destination, America stopped, and Romano’s heart dropped.

With a large, sweeping gesture, America said, “Welcome to Rockefeller Plaza’s ice skating rink! Not the best place for actually ice skating, but a must see for  _ any  _ winter-time visitor to New York!” His voice sounded like an old news announcer. Behind him stood an immense skating rink filled with dozens of people with a towering, decorated Christmas tree gazing over it all. 

“Fuck no,” Romano said. 

“Aw, come on,” America said, pulling him beyond the line to get skates. “It’s just like riding a bike! Besides, I know a guy who’ll let us skip the line.” This was said with a wink. 

“America, I’ve never—” 

“I’m sure you’ve done this thousands of times before, but prepare to be amazed by my ice skills! I’ll give you a run for your money.” 

Before Romano could get a word in, he stood, wobbling on too-tight skates staring out at a rink full of people—some whipping around in blurs while others snuggled into their partners, looping gracefully around and around children and others laughing. 

Eyes sparkling, America said pointing towards one of the couples, “We  _ have  _ to do that. It’d be just like a movie.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Romano replied, voice drowned out in the noise and bustle.

America pulled him onto the ice, wrapped their arms together, and pushed them forward. Romano, to his credit, made it a few seconds before feeling his legs slide out beneath, falling backwards onto his ass. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, he bit back a long stream of curses. The cold sunk into him as pain shot up his spine. His elbow, having caught most of his weight, throbbed. 

“Holy shit are you okay?” America asked. “Is your arm okay?” His eyes were wide with concern, and Romano hated him and himself in that moment. 

“Yes, just help me up,” he bit out.

America did so, maneuvering them to side where Romano could hold himself upright.

“Did I go to fast for you? I can go slower.” His voice was so earnest, it made Romano grit his teeth. 

“I’ve never been skating before, idiot,” Romano said. 

America’s brows knit, “Never? But I thought?” 

Romano interjected, “Not a lot places for skating in my home. And I never tried in the mountains with Veneziano.” 

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I tried! You wouldn’t let me get a word in!”

Silence stretched between the two of them. 

Sighing, Romano said, “Let’s just go. You’ve got more plans don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” America said, “of course. I have a place for dinner picked out. Come on, I’ll help you out.” America helped him walk back to their shoes, and once Romano was fully stabilized, helped him into his coat (which Romano found equally endearing and embarrassing). 

“Are you good to walk?” America asked, “I made reservations at a place a few blocks away.”

“Yeah,” Romano replied, “I didn’t fucking break anything.” 

“You know,” America said after a few minutes of silence Romano never knew him capable of, “the first time I went skating we didn’t even have skates. We just sort of slid around on the ice in our shoes.” 

Romano hummed his acknowledgement, looking up at America who so rarely gave these stories of his early days. 

America continued, gazing far off into the distance, “I think it was around 1632? I was up in Boston, and that winter was so cold. I don’t think I ever quite got over it.” He chuckled to himself, and it warmed Romano from the inside out. “It was me and some kids. And one of their dads dug into the ice—that’s how you make sure it’s thick enough to skate on—and let us on. And I got out and—” he paused, raising his eyebrows.

“And. . .?” Romano urged, rolling his eyes.

“I fell after about 10 minutes and broke my wrist. My legs slid out underneath me straight onto my ass, and I had to spend the rest of the winter inside with the ladies learning one-handed canning and embroidery.”

Romano snorted a laugh, tucking his face against America’s arm. America laughed too, grinning sheepishly. “Did my childhood adventures cheer you up?” he asked. 

Nodding, Romano said, “Back before you were even a colony, before Veneziano and I were united, when  _ Venice  _ was alive, Veneziano and I were visiting her for Carnival. And her canals were so filthy back then, I mean, they’re the fucking sewers, so it always smelled like shit, and you had to be careful not to fall in. So, we’re at Carnival and Veneziano gets a little—”

“Drunk off his ass?”

“—a little drunk off his ass, yes, and he trips over something.  _ I  _ say it was his own damn feet. To this day, he insists it was a crack in the street. In any matter, he’s flailing like a fucking idiot, grabs my arm, and then next thing you know, we’re both in the canal.” Romano sniffed, clearly still haunted by the memory. “Ruined my favorite doublet too. I’ll never forgive him.” 

“Aw,” America said, “isn’t a couple hundred years long enough?” He poked Romano’s side.

“ _ Never _ ,” Romano said. “I couldn’t get the stink of shit out of my hair for weeks.” 

America stroked the back of Romano’s hand with his thumb (Romano couldn’t recall when exactly their hands had entwined), “Sometimes I forget how much life you’ve lived.” His face looked unfathomably soft.

“Well, you’ve made up for it. Now, where’s this place? I’m starving.” 

“Right here, actually.” America stopped in front of a restaurant entitled  _ FRKS _ . From the outside, it looked pretentious; from the inside, it also looked pretentious. Setting Romano on edge, the place positively dripped ostentatious wealth and poor taste—nothing at all like he’d been expecting. He had come to appreciate America’s apt for finding little gems of places tucked in alleyways or sending Romano little photos of his homemade meals (he recalled one called  _ gumbo  _ and the way America glowed when Romano polished off the pot of it in one night.) 

They were seated at a table that looked more akin to a piece of unpolished marble with supremely uncomfortable chairs that resembled twisted, gnarled knots of wood. With the dim lighting, Romano squinted at the menu, which consisted of phrases like “ _ essense of violet foam and smidge of patê and tender, feral greens. _ ” Romano muttered, “The fuck is a ‘feral green’?” 

The waitress, a smart looking woman with short, deep emerald green hair, approached their table. “Welcome to Forks,” she said, “a dining experience for the new millennium. Can I bring you anything to drink? Our wine list exclusively features wines from the Provence region in France.” 

“ _ Holy shit _ ,” Romano said under his breath. 

“I think we’re okay for now,” America said, voice strained. 

“Shall I give you some time to look over the menu then?”

“Please.” 

She left, disappearing into some unknown backroom.

Romano looked at America, “What the hell is this place?” 

“Uh,” America said, “a Forbes’s number one ‘Top 50 Most Extravagant Dining Experiences in the World’?” 

“Oh my God.”

“Let’s at least stay for a little bit. I had to throw some weight around to get a table. They’re booked 6 months in advance. Who knows,” he glanced down at the menu, squinting, “the ‘ _ eau de prawn with poached quail egg souffle _ ’ could be good.”

Studying the tablecloth, America went quiet for a moment. Romano sighed.

Placing his own menu down, Romano said, “America, do you even like places like this? This is something I’d expect from France. Or, hell, even Austria.”

Blowing a huff of air up at his bangs, America said, “Not really. I just thought it would be all romantic for me to bring you to a big trendy place after having miraculously gotten a table. You don’t really say much about what you’re feeling, so I don’t ever know if I’m doing things right.” He looked away, swiping a hand across his eyes. “Heh, sorry. Don’t know why I’m crying really. I wanted tonight to be like a movie. To be as good as our first date.”

_ Oh _ , Romano thought. 

“Listen, you don’t have to do this. I don’t even really like big romantic gestures.” Swallowing past his nerves, he continued, “I like the little things, you know. Like when you send me pictures, or I give you books I think you’ll like. I don’t need all this.” He waved a hand around. “You are the dumbest shit  _ alive _ ,” Romano said, softly. Reaching across the table, he offered his hand out. “Our first date was nice because it was just us doing things we like together. And you seeing my city and seeing a new side of you. And besides, I do have a hard time telling people my feelings, just ask Spain. I should’ve been more open.”

“Correction,” America said, taking Romano’s hand in his, “ _ we  _ are the dumbest shit alive.” There was that crooked grin again, and Romano felt himself answer with one of his own. America leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “What’s say you and I get out of here? I know an actually good place around the corner.” 

America weaved them out of FRKS and into a little corner diner that appeared out of time with a flickering neon open sign and and checked curtains. Inside, amiable voices filled the air while pies and cakes turned round and round in a glass case. Blue and white garlands hung on the countertops while a menorah stood proudly by the register. An old man with deeply grooved smile lines behind the counter waved to them, “Come sit wherever you like. Annelise will be with you shortly.” 

“Here,” America said, moving to a booth next to the frosted window, “this is my favorite seat.” Outside, the snow began falling heavier, blanketing passersby in white fluff. 

“How long have you been coming here?” Romano asked.

“I think since they opened. I want to say 1966? It’s passed hands from the grandparents to the grandkids now, I think. They make the best reubens this side of New York. Also their latkes are to die for,” America said, playing with the salt shaker on the table. Joy dripped from every word, and Romano smiled.

After dinner later that night, Romano found himself curled up against America on his couch. He rubbed his fingers along the soft cotton of America’s shirt, occasionally stroking his soft belly. America’s arm was heavy, draped along the length of Romano’s shoulders. On tv, Judy Garland was singing in St. Louis while Gemma curled in front of the flickering fireplace. It wasn’t a real one, not in a highrise like this, but it radiated warmth that filled the room. Next to it, stood a small tree laden with lights and old ornaments and crowned with a star. (No tinsel because America said Gemma tried to eat it earlier in the month and he was  _ not  _ dealing with that again.)

“Hey,” America said, kissing the top of Romano’s head.

“Hey yourself, bastard,” Romano said, full of affection, and for once, unselfconscious. 

“C’mere.” America pulled Romano impossibly closer, nosing Romano’s throat, a hint of a kiss at the hinge of his jaw. 

Shivering, Romano said, “What about the movie?” 

America kissed him quiet, mumbling, “Judy would understand.” 

Strong arms around his waist, Romano kissed back. A little bit tipsy on the wine America poured for them, he swayed, falling forward against America’s broad chest. He slid one under America’s shirt, tangling the hem in his other. Scratching lightly, Romano flushed with pleasure as America moaned soft and heady at the sensation. 

“Tell me,” Romano said, “do you think about me like this?” 

America said, voice hoarse, “God, all the time. I think about the way you look in that suit you wore in Rome and it gets me every time.” 

Romano placed a sucking kiss to the base of America’s throat. “Yeah? What do you like about it? That suit’s expensive you know. Several thousand euros.” He pinched America’s nipple, enjoying the roll of America’s body underneath his, the way the muscles rippled with thinly veiled control.

“ _ Ah _ . Your shoulders—” America stripped Romano of his sweater to nip at his collarbone, “your waist—” Romano did the same while America moved to the floor, tugging off Romano’s trousers, “your long fucking legs—” America mouthed his way up from Romano’s ankles to the backs of his knees, “everything about you drives me crazy.”

There they sat, Romano spread out on America’s couch with America kneeling between his legs. Heat spilled out in Romano’s stomach, trickling through his veins like a welcome hemlock sip. Stretching out his leg, he pressed the arch of his foot against America’s dick which strained against the front of his black jeans. America hissed, and Romano smirked at the blush scrawling across America’s cheeks, down his neck, and blooming along his pecs. He pressed harder, and America’s hips rolled down onto it. America’s face crumpled into a moan. Gripping Romano’s ankle, he ground against it. His abs fluttered with effort. The sight of America on his knees, riding Romano’s leg, made something wicked race through him.

He flexed his toes against America’s stomach, “Get on with it.”

“I want to make it good for you, hun.” 

Romano’s breath stuck in chest while America ran calloused hands up his trembling thighs, leaving rippling gooseflesh in their wake. Kissing the inside of one, America looked up at him through his lashes. Romano gazed back down at him. He stroked America’s hair, making him look boyish and rumpled. 

“Sorry,” Romano said, “it’s been a while. There hasn’t been— I mean—” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. 

America said, “Don’t worry.” He smiled. “Me too.” 

America slipped Romano’s cock between his plush pink lips and swallowed him down. Head thrown back, Romano gasped. Clutching America’s hair between his fists, he sucked in gulps of air as America began moving up and down his length. 

“Jesus fuck, you’re good,” Romano groaned, “look so pretty on your knees.” Twisting and squirming, he fought the urge to fuck up into America’s hot, wet mouth. America fisted the base of Romano’s cock, wrapped his lips around the tip, and sucked. Romano gasped, nails digging into America’s shoulders. He could see America’s hips rocking into the air with his free hand gripping his knee, trying not to touch himself. The sight of it tugged at Romano’s gut.

“That’s so— _ oh _ .” Toes curling into the carpet, back arching, Romano came with a quiet moan. 

Come spattered across America’s mouth and face, and didn’t  _ that  _ just ruin Romano for anything else. Romano fell back against the sofa, chest heaving with effort, eyes closed for a moment. Between his legs, he heard America’s voice break on a moan. With his jeans now tangled around his ankles, America was doubled over, stroking his dick. The wet sound of it echoed through the room while his slick glistened across his knuckles.

“Romano please. Can I come?” 

“Fucking Christ. Yeah, come for me.” Leaning down, he sealed their lips. He knocked America’s hand out of the way, replacing it with his own. Sliding a thigh between America’s own, Romano hitched America up and close who let out a hiccuping whimper. America’s hips spasmed into Romano’s fist as he came. Romano buried his face in America’s freckled shoulder, rocking their bodies together as America shuddered through his orgasm. 

America huffed against Romano’s shoulder, trembling as he came down from the high. Romano himself found his own hands unsteady and body weak-kneed as he tried to stand to collect himself. 

“There’s a washcloth in the bathroom,” America croaked. His face was sweetly blushed, attempting to return his pants and sweater to their proper places. 

Romano went to grab it, washing his hands off in the sink. In the mirror, he caught sight of a blooming red mark on his neck, and swelled with renewed heat at the thought of it hiding beneath his clothes tomorrow, just for him to remember this night by. Returning to America, he laughed as America’s nose crinkled when he wiped the come off his face and stomach. 

“Can we finish the movie now?” Romano asked, mirth wrapped in each word. 

America tossed the cloth into his laundry basket. “Sure, hun,” he said. Flopping on the sofa, America stretched out his legs, “Want to lay down with me?” 

Nodding, Romano allowed himself to sink into America’s embrace. To the rise and fall of America’s chest, Romano felt contentment settle deep in his chest. He could only hope that whatever came next in the world, America would be there by his side. 

**Author's Note:**

> Update! Tumblr user conflicted-in-wonderland drew some gorgeous [art](https://conflicted-in-wonderland.tumblr.com/post/190146826552/you-came-in-electric-shivers-through-my-bones) for this fic! It's the first time anyone's drawn art of my writing, so it's very, very special to me. Thanks so very much!!


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